


cheek for the guests and cheers for the bridegroom

by bryndentully



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Contrived Coincidences, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Family Shenanigans, Frey Drama, Gen, Plotty, Ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryndentully/pseuds/bryndentully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Red Wedding is averted through a series of coincidences, Frey bumbling, and happy accidents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cheek for the guests and cheers for the bridegroom

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this ridiculous premise and just had to write it down.

“My lord! Some food would be most welcome, mayhaps. We have ridden many leagues in the rain.”

"Bread and salt," Lord Walder grumbles, missing the definitive word. He waves over a handful of servants. "Of course."

Lame Lothar catches Black Walder's eye. _Fool_ , Black Walder seems to say. Lothar isn't about to _disagree_ , but...

The king's mother said mayhaps. Mayhaps! That's the one rule at the Twins above all others. Little Freys learn it in their nurseries, bastard babes included. If Black Walder can lay with cousins and stepmothers, and Merrett can drink enough for three men, and Jinglebell can jingle himself silly, and Ami can scour the Riverlands with a portcullis wedged open for many men to enter, and Ryman can whore himself from one side of Westeros to the other, shouldn't _one_ rule stand strong? Lothar shifts his weight from foot to foot, grimacing.

This one little rule makes Lady Stark the uncontested Lord of the Crossing.

He'll think on it.

* * *

"We have a problem," Merrett mumbles, swaying where he stands.

"What?" Lothar asks, patiently.

"I'm...already in m'cups," Merrett whispers, though the whisper it's intended to be is a shout. "Too drunk. For the _plan_."

Petyr Pimple gives a little giggle, stinking of wine.

"Then it's just water for you, Merrett," Lothar tells him, less pleasantly than before. Merrett Muttonhead has a job to do, like many others. Lothar will see it done right. "Until tonight."

"Wine helps. My headaches. They hurt."

"We know damn well about your headaches," Hosteen grouses, en route to the kitchens. "You never shut up about your headaches."

Merrett squints in the opposite direction, mistaking Petyr for his brother. "My headaches are a product of my bravery, I'll have you know," he insists, ruining the effect with another perilous sway to the side. "When I fought against the Kingswood Brotherhood."

"You got a pox from a whore and an arse brand from an outlaw," says Hosteen. Merrett takes a step toward him, voice reedy with rage.

"I will not hear—"

"Enough," Lothar cuts in, getting between the two of them with some difficulty. Crakehall Freys. Notoriously stupid, but big as aurochs. He shifts, trying to keep his weight off his weak leg. Now isn't the time or the place, especially with so many Northmen around still smarting from the Karstark affair. "Merrett, go sober up. Hosteen...just go."

Hosteen gives him a mutinous look, but takes his leave. Petyr and Merrett linger, confused.

"Go," Lothar growls. Seven hells, is every man in the Twins other than himself a lackwit?

No more missteps. Tonight must go off without a hitch, lest the Freys receive their own song, like the Tarbecks, and the Reynes...

And be given more disrespect, besides. _No_ , Lothar thinks. The honor of House Frey has been tainted long enough already.

* * *

More problems arise in the hours before the feast. Lothar checks his anger, even as Black Walder admits to two great errors.

"The food cost us too much," Black Walder fumes, stomping around Lothar's chambers like a giant. "The tents are not what I asked for."

"Excuse me?"

"We spent so much on _food_. The tents are too weak."

"Too weak?" Lothar repeats with growing agitation, slowing the buttoning of his jerkin. Black Walder is not known for his wordplay.

"The wind will blow them away like leaves before they collapse."

Lothar pinches the bridge of his nose. The tents are to be set on fire and detain the men in the camps. This will not do. He sighs.

"What else?"

Black Walder heaves a breath, contrition warring with fury on his face. "The singers are... _actual_ singers."

Lothar seethes. The gods have not blessed him with cunning siblings and half-siblings. "I beg your pardon?" He demands.

Black Walder does not appreciate his tone, but leaves it be. "The singers are not sellswords, nor knights."

"Bugger you," Lothar snaps, unthinkingly. Black Walder puts a hand on his sword, and takes one warning step toward Lothar. Lothar has never been a warlike man. Nothing like Black Walder or Hosteen, the former who scaled the walls of the Crag and the latter who fought the Lannisters. Lothar's mind is the true weapon that will one day, perhaps not before Winter, give him the Twins. All in due time.

Not if he poses a threat to Black Walder, currently third in line and unlikely to keep on a steward who troubles him.

Fortunately, Edwyn and Black Walder hate each other more than they do anyone else. Lothar's smarts will save him. Protect him.

A servant's knock interrupts potential bloodshed. Kinship means just as little here as guest right. "The singers are without, m'lords."

"Send them in," Lothar orders without looking, inclining his head as an apology. Black Walder grunts in acknowledgment.

A group of singers push their way into the room, talking over one another. Lothar catches the gist almost immediately; the singers are quarreling over who gets to sing first. Lothar wants to put quarrels in them all, but listens, more patiently than any deserve. The only woman catches Black Walder's eye—Bethany Fair-Fingers, renown and expected to perform at King Joffrey's wedding. Rymund, one of Edmure Tully's favorites despite the lord's distaste for music. Galyeon of Cuy, notable for his long songs. The last handful are forgettable save one; Likely Luke, Mudge, Dennett, and Tom of Sevenstreams. Black Walder barks for quiet, though only Tom refrains.

"You've both heard _my_ talents, m'lords," Tom offers, smiling. He gestures to the other three. "These men are my musicians."

Galyeon scoffs. Black Walder leers at Bethany, but gets a scowl for his efforts.

Lothar sends them away to figure out the lineup themselves, all except for Sevenstreams. Lothar watches Tom pluck a string, choosing his words carefully. This is a sensitive matter. Treason to the king in this castle, loyalty to the one on Iron Throne. Still, he must be cautious. Outright _asking_ for 'The Rains of Castamere' arouses too much suspicion. A single singer will not undo Lothar's plans.

"Will you play my favorite song after the bedding?" Lothar inquires, politely. Black Walder grins.

Tom smiles all the wider, playing a ditty on the harp. Pate never paid this man, but Lothar can be generous to those who prove useful.

"Rest assured, m'lord. I'll sing all night if I must."

* * *

Lothar suspects the gods are interfering. He is not a zealot of the Faith, like Luceon. But this all started with that one mayhaps. An unchallenged victory. A vow delivered over bread and salt. The gods frown on much, Lothar knows, and worries they are...retaliating.

Before the food is delivered to every waiting plate, Danwell and Raymund have gotten into a shouting match—then a duel—about one thing or another. Lord Bolton hisses about Fat Walda, who, by Lothar's estimation, has stored his armor with her own possessions, quickly lost in the hustle and bustle of wedding preparations. Lothar sends Raymund to Maester Brenett, Danwell to Beony Beesbury (Raymund's wife) to apologize for insulting her, and ushers Lord Bolton himself to the armory for new ringmail to wear under his finery. When they arrive, Bolton silent on Lothar's lengthy pace, two Vance lads stand guard at the door, pikes in hand, to Lothar's dismay.

"Lord Bolton requires entry," says Lothar, a sweat as bad as Ryman's coming on. Bolton _needs_ protection for the attack.

"His Grace had all arms, mail, and armor stored for safekeeping," Ser Ellery explains, as if this is not a _Frey_ armory.

"The king and company have gathered for the feast," adds Ser Hugo, leaning slightly on the wall. "Your presence is missed, my lords."

"Yes," Bolton concedes after a painful silence. "Of course."

They pass Likely Luke on the way to the feast, hoisting a bag over his shoulder. "What's this?" Bolton asks, before Lothar can.

"Vielle," grunts Luke. "Needs new strings."

Lothar sends him off to the newest Lady Frey's wing, where servants with supplies to repair it will assist him. Hopefully.

Mayhem greets Lothar and Bolton at the doors. Lothar snags the sleeve of a nearby cook, who tearfully explains that many casks of wine and ale smashed in the hurry to dole out the first course, depleting the Twins of half their ammunition to subdue the king's loyal bannermen. Bolton glances at Lothar, expressionless yet cold as ice. Lothar squirms, uncomfortable as Merrett under close scrutiny.

"Do not make me regret this arrangement," the lord warns, and goes his seat beside the Lady Catelyn.

Querulous as Lord Walder, Lothar squeezes onto a bench, tucking in to the overpriced pink lamb with resentment in his belly. Of all the nights for his smarts to fail...

After a few bites, Lothar searches for the musicians. Likely Luke has reappeared, instrument mended. Tom of Sevenstreams tunes the woodharp he is so fond of using, though his progress slows with every pass of the serving girl who beds Black Walder often. Mudge is present, Dennett is not. Lothar puts the man's absence out of his mind after Bethany starts to sing 'Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass on the Grass'.

"Right on her ass!" Whalen yells, already half drowning in his cups. The Greatjon pounds the table with a fist, shouting with laughter.

Lothar feigns amusement. He tries to catch Lord Walder's eye, even if his father's eyes are poorer every year and filmy as milk.

"You need a new seamstress," Lord Walder is shouting over the noise, squeezing his newest wife's breasts. "I can't even see your teats."

Lothar winces, but shakes it off. No matter. The plan will work with or without Lord Walder's word, and then all of Westeros will see...

* * *

...see, _nothing_. The plan is a disaster, right from the start.

Tom of Sevenstreams is damn near useless. He played one song, then vanished with the serving girl in short order. Dennett, Mudge, and Likely Luke discordantly follow Galyeon of Cuy's 'Meggett Was a Merry Maid, a Merry Maid Was She'. Merrett (the biggest drunk in the Twins!) and Petyr pass out, joined by Leslyn Haigh, abandoning their jobs and allowing the Greatjon to drink as laboriously as he likes.

"Grievous sad," Umber roars, making Owen Norrey howl with laughter. Lothar grinds his teeth as if he's chewing sourleaf.

Lothar's own daughter Tysane dances with King Robb, smiling like a simpleton. _So much for that _, her father thinks, annoyed.__

He glances at the bride, who shares her cup and food with her new husband. Roslin's always be a fair little thing, though today she looks almost ghostly on the dais. Tully seems not to notice, but Lothar does—Roslin _knows_. Not many of the women do, but Lothar suspects Olyvar must have let it slip before he was sent away. Rosby Freys. Comely, but not as loyal as Blackwood Freys like himself.

Roslin whispers in Tully's ear. Lothar does not like the look of that. The Lord of Riverrun will be a hostage of Casterly Rock soon, Lothar knows, consoling himself. Roslin and her kin will join him, which will make some much needed breathing room at the Twins.

Tom of Sevenstreams returns, and picks up a jaunty tune to match his smug, stupid smile. His musicians beg off to the privy. _At the same time_? Lothar wonders, puzzled. That seems odd. And familiar. Merrett's Ami is with Fat Walda, however. Can't be her doing.

"Lord Bolton," King Robb says over the beat of 'The Dornishman's Wife' and Wendel Manderly's boisterous chuckles. "I have an offer."

"Your Grace?" Lothar sees rather than hears Bolton say, words lost in the din. Lothar strains to eavesdrop.

"I plan to make you Lord of Casterly Rock," the king tells him, a touch of cunning in those Tully blue eyes. "Are you amenable?"

Lady Catelyn's lips part, but she doesn't speak. Her gaze remains on the king.

Bolton's infinitesimal twitch of his hand is the only indication of his shock. "You...jape, my king. The Rock is impregnable."

"Grey Wind has never led me astray before. When we march on the westerlands, and find a way in, the Rock will be yours."

Lothar frowns. The king's plotted a course on Winterfell to retake it from the Ironborn. Not that it matters—he won't survive the night, and neither will the Northmen who march faithfully at his side. Still, Lothar is curious. Why the change of heart? Why Lord Bolton and not the Greatjon, who plundered the gold mines of Nunn's Deep, Castamere, and Pendric Hills? Lord Bolton considers the offer in silence.

 _All that Lannister gold outweighs Fat Walda's dowry_ , Lothar realizes. More than a Lord of the Crossing can hope to match.

"You honor me, Your Grace," the lord of the Dreadfort replies, abandoning the Freys in one fell swoop. "I accept."

Lothar drops his goblet in surprise, measure of stealth lost. He struggles to reach it, only for the king himself to hand it back to him.

"Careful, my lord," King Robb says, smiling. "You're missing the song of the Rat Cook."

"M-my thanks, Your Grace," Lothar mutters, meekly.

* * *

Lord Walder calls for the bedding. Hundreds of hands clap and bang fists on the tables. The noise is earsplitting. Lothar smiles.

Almost ready.

Roslin and Edmure are carried off. Bolton discusses strategy with the king, welcoming Lady Catelyn's points with deference. Some of the Northman are singing 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair', filling in spots in the forgotten verses with lewd suggestions. Black Walder glances at Lothar, who nods. Bolton's defection means nothing—the massacre will go on as planned. Let him see where his allegiance should lie.

"Time for my favorite song," Lothar says once he has found Tom of Sevenstreams. His musicians are still missing, as are the others.

Tom gives a noise of disagreement, making the serving girl in his lap giggle. Lothar smiles, patiently, and adopts a courteous air.

"You promised me, Tom O'Sevens. You said you would sing all night."

"What's your favorite song, Lothar?" Lucas Blackwood asks. Lothar hesitates. Another Blackwood, however distant. Too loyal to Robb.

"Um..."

Lord Walder has a scullery maid and his poor wife with him, no doubt making some vulgar suggestion about pleasing him together. Black Walder has left the signal of the massacre to Lothar, by the hungry looks of Lothar's half brother on their half sister, Fair Walda. Hosteen is arguing with Dacey Mormont, a conflict that soon becomes an arm wrestling contest. Jinglebell runs around, bells clanging as he chases the dogs looking for scraps around the hall. The king and his mother are dancing, now that the drums have stopped. The drums?

Stopped. There's no music save for Tom's lazy plucking of the woodharp. Lothar shoots a panicky look at his allies, his family, the people who relied on him to organize the wedding's secret end. No one sees him. Has Lord Walder _forgotten_ this as easily as he forgets the names of his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren, nephews and so on scattered in?

No one is playing 'The Rains of Castamere'. The men outside will not act. The singers are unarmed. The tents won't burn. There is no signal to murder the Northmen and their boy king. Desperate, Lothar struggles to find an alternative method to put the plan back in motion.

"Goodnight, my lords," Lady Catelyn says, an exhausted smile on her lips. Lothar's father misses her entirely.

"Sleep well, Lord Frey," King Robb declares, escorting his mother out of the hall. His guards follow. Lothar seethes again.

Ryman is supposed to slay Dacey. Hosteen must kill Lucas Blackwood. Haigh has to subdue the Greatjon. Bolton needs to slay the king! Must Lothar do _everything_? Lothar simmers like stew, cursing them all. None of them will stay once he is Lord of the Crossing.

Merrett wakes with a snort, just as Ryman displays his bad belly and heaves the pink lamb he devoured right back on the floor.

"What happened?" Merrett croaks.

 _Nothing_ , Lothar wants to scream, struck dumb with an implacable fury. _A fat lot of nothing!_

* * *

Roslin and her kin depart for Riverrun after a sennight of Lord Walder's bawdy jokes, escorted by lesser knights. Lady Catelyn has armed guards for the route to Seagard. King Robb, Lord Bolton, and the army of Northmen, riverlords, and Freys, will march to Casterly Rock.

The war is still on. The Lord Hand must be as angry as Lothar by now.

"I don't understand," Lothar spits out, forgetting himself. "Tywin Lannister wanted—"

"Oh bugger him," Lord Walder snaps. "And bugger you. You sound like Emmon. Whiny. I don't like _whiny_."

Lothar holds his tongue. An obedient steward has longevity. Whiners end up like Merrett. A joke. The family disgrace.

"I like the wolf's offer better," Lothar's father deigns to elaborate. "His whelp sister finally showed up."

"What?"

"Alys. No, Arya. Yes, Arya. They all thought she went missing. Then the _Hound_ shows up, demanding a ransom. Heh."

Small wonder Lady Catelyn is so fond of Patrek Mallister's new squire, the longfaced, ugly little boy that showed up this week.

Lothar tries to keep up. This has never been a problem. His mind is sharper than anyone else's in the Twins. But—

"She's his _heir_ , you fool," Lord Walder shouts, chin bobbing up and down like a horse. He chews, talking with his mouth full of food. He spits. "Arya. The older one's married to the dwarf. Out of line. The king has no children. Arya and Elmar will rule the North someday."

Lord Walder snatches a piece of bacon off Lothar's plate and continues, spraying a detris of crumbs onto his doublet.

"The king offers Casterly Rock. Of _course_ Bolton deserted. Hmph. Though, heh...my kin will have a foothold in the North, through Winterfell, through the Dreadfort, through Casterly Rock, and now Riverrun." He squints at Lothar, unimpressed. "No thanks to you."

Lothar quietly considers kinslaying. The old gods and the new will understand, surely...a man has a right to vengeance, fresh and old...

"Oh," Lord Walder announces, thrusting a letter in Lothar's hands. "A raven for you. Jammos has been captured by outlaws. Go get him."

"A hundred gold dragons?" Lothar asks in disbelief. Jammos is dear to him, a full sibling, but not worth _that_ much. A thirteenth son of a fourth wife with fifty two others before him in the line of succession? Even Jinglebell's ahead of Lothar and Jammos by Stevron.

"No blood of mine will be a hostage," the Lord of the Crossing sniffs, apparently forgetting Big Walder and Little Walder at the Dreadfort, Hosteen and Danwell's past captivity at Harrenhal, and little Tion's death by Rickard Karstark. "Go get him. Don't come back if you can't."

* * *

Crunching sourleaf between his teeth, Lothar hurries his horse onward. As Jammos's elder brother, the rescue falls to him, but with a hundred gold dragons in his saddlebag and no protectors, Lord Walder's dismissal seems akin to an execution. Outlaws roaming around, wolves attacking men, the Mountain That Rides putting people to the sword and homes to the torch...the Riverlands are no longer safe.

He stops at Oldstones, and eases off the horse. He clutches the reins for balance, casting looks about. He isn't keen on running into the White Fawn, if she still exists. Merrett is the laughingstock, not Lothar. Lame Lothar. He scowls, searching for a sign of his brother.

Lothar is the steward of the Twins. This is a humiliation. A task well beneath him and better suited someone like Petyr Pimple.

"Fancy that song now, m'lord?"

Tom O'Sevens lounges on Tristifer's tomb as if it is a throne, stringing his harp. Lothar gapes. "You!"

"Me," the singer agrees, smiling. A man in a yellow cloak appears, then a red priest, then an archer, a smith, a hideous man with an lightning bolt on a ruined breastplate, with Mudge, Dennett, and Likely Luke rounding out the group. Lothar's jaw drops when another handful cuts through the trees, the new arrivals being bigger surprises. Robb Stark. Catelyn Stark. Arya Stark. Finally, Roslin Tully.

"Wh—?" Lothar yells, as the yellowcloak binds his wrists and arranges a noose around his neck. "This is insanity!"

Dimly, Lothar remembers Jammos and his wife striking out to visit the Paeges. Lothar meant to write it down, and tell everyone else...

"This is justice," says King Robb.

Tom of Sevenstreams does a jaunty tune. "You're accused of...what was it, Lem?"

"Collusion with the enemy," the yellowcloak answers in disgust. Stark's direwolf prowls nearby, snapping his teeth when Lothar spots him. "Lothar Frey corresponded to murder you under his father's roof, Your Grace. On the orders of Tywin Lannister himself."

"You would betray guest right?" Lady Catelyn demands, revolted. Her daughter's eyes are dark with hatred.

"You dishonored us," Lothar gets out. "You married that Westerling bitch and not Roslin."

"The king apologized, brother," Roslin reminds him. He hardly spoke ten words to her before what he planned to call the Red Wedding.

"Empty words."

Grey Wind snarls. The king merely looks at him, as if seeing what everyone sees. Lothar's lame leg. Disguised ambition.

"Anguy caught your raven," Robb says. "The Brotherhood Without Banners was kind enough to alert me. They served my father, you see. Most don't want to see another Stark fall. You Freys, on the other hand..." Lem tightens the rope around Lothar's neck. "I watched closely. My guard drank nothing. All had weapons. Yours went into the armory, all for the sake of courtesy. You must wonder why I did not attack you all, and take your heads for treason."

"Not particularly," Lothar spits. The smith and the Stark whelp pilfer through the saddlebag and toss the ransom to Anguy. Stealing. Lothar puts the pieces together. Tom of Sevenstreams was the real singer. The others wandered about the Twins, probably stealing whatever they could while every Frey was distracted. No wonder Likely Luke, Mudge, and Dennett played so poorly. Lothar fumes.

The king answers his own question, uncaring of a soon-to-be dead man's attention. "I need every man I can get, even the few who consider treason. I learned that after Lord Karstark. Casterly Rock has the money and prestige to keep every one of them loyal, including Lord Bolton." Robb approaches the gallows, turning that stupid, selfish Tully gaze on him. Lothar wants to kick that ugly crown off his head, but his bad leg won't swing properly. _That's not anything new_ , Lothar thinks, scowling. Robb continues. "I keep my promises, Lothar. I promised your father a marriage, and I gave him one. Lord Bolton gets his plunder while Tywin Lannister celebrates his bastard grandson's wedding, too far away to help." He smiles and Lothar hates him for it. "My word on marrying Arya off is strong, like the boy Elmar isn't. If he doesn't die in the field, the Hound will keep him in line at Winterfell. I also promised my lady mother that I will bring my sisters home. I have one," the king remarks, as Arya sticks out her tongue. "I _will_ rescue the other. My sister, Sansa."

"You'll never make it," Lothar retorts, throwing insults every which way on his deathbed. They'll skewer that girl with a sword or a Lannister cock before they allow the King in the North to steal _their_ precious ward of the crown. "Not if you want the Rock."

"I don't know about that," Anguy the archer muses, smiling. "The kingswood is dangerous, yet Lady Sansa goes hawking with Lady Margaery quite often...a man like myself, lying in wait? No one will ever see me coming. The direwolf's coming too, for authenticity."

This lot probably doesn't know what authenticity means.

"Any last words, my lord?" Beric Dondarrion asks. "We've found you guilty, by the way. These ravens and sweet Roslin were most useful."

A part of him wants to curse at them. Call _them_ traitors and oathbreakers and thieves and Roslin a kinslayer.

"We'll deal with your traitor kin very soon," the red priest promises. "For the night is dark and full of terrors."

Lothar _himself_ is filled with terror.

"Winter is coming," he ventures, weakly trying to flatter. He licks his lips. "Mayhaps you spare me, and I will serve you faithfully."

"My lord," Robb Stark chides, grinning, like Lothar's just given him Winterfell again. "Don't you know the rules of Crossing?"

Lem Lemoncloak yanks the rope, and Lame Lothar Frey goes up, up, up.


End file.
